Page 13 of Sweet Caroline

The Second of December, 1812 A Drizzling Afternoon

Another encounter with Mr Harrison today, beneath the dripping portico of the circulating library, my kid slippers quite soaked from puddles despite my best efforts. I heard myself beginning to simper about the weather, my voice rising to that artificial pitch deemed elegant by the ton, and caught his raised eyebrow over the rim of his slightly rain-speckled quizzing glass. Without thinking, I stopped mid-sentence and said, "In truth, I find all this rain quite deplorable. My new bonnet is utterly ruined—touching the sodden silk flowers that had cost a small fortune at Madame Devereaux's merely yesterday.

He smiled—not the polite society smile to which I am accustomed, but something warm that reached his eyes, creating little creases at the corners that spoke of genuine pleasure. "There you are," he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the steady drumming of rain on the cobblestones. "I had been wondering when the real Miss Bingley would appear."

I felt myself flush, the warmth spreading across my cheeks despite the damp chill in the air. Not with embarrassment, but with... something else entirely.

—

The Second of December, 1812 As Night Falls

I stood at my window this evening, watching the stars emerge one by one.

How different everything appears now! I recalled all those evenings I spent in idle gossip at parties, alone,desperately seeking attention and approval.

But now I look at the night and it does not seem so lonely.

Rather, it feels full of possibility.

Mr Harrison spoke to me of his plans to improve his tenant farmers’ cottages today.

Once, I should have dismissed such conversation as tediously practical.

Now I find myself eagerly offering suggestions about proper ventilation and the importance of good glass in the windows.

He values my practical mind—how strange that I spent so many years concealing it!

—

The Third of December, 1812 At Morning Breakfast

Charles remarked at breakfast that he hardly knows me any longer.

I smiled and replied that perhaps he is only now truly making my acquaintance.

Mr Harrison, who was calling early to discuss the cottage improvements, met my gaze across the table.

That look of his—I shall never tire of it.

—

The Fifth of December, 1812 Following the Assembly

I did something shocking this evening. When Mr. Harrison asked my opinion of his friend’s new painting, I told him the truth—that I found it pretentious and poorly composed. My heart was pounding throughout, but I looked him directly in the eye and said exactly what I thought.

He threw back his head and laughed. “Magnificent,” he said. “And what else?”

I found myself speaking of composition and light, about how the artist clearly wished to imitate the Italian masters but had not the skill to carry it off. All my actual knowledge about art, usually hidden behind bland compliments, came pouring forth.

Mr Harrison merely watched me, that intense look in his eyes. When I finally fell silent, he said, “Who would have believed you would come along? How wonderful you are when you are real.”

I have never felt more exposed. Or more exhilarated.

—

The Sixth of December, 1812 Dawn

I lay awake through half the night thinking about Mr Harrison’s forthrightness. He does not calculate or manipulate—he simply says what he thinks and feels, yet somehow manages to do so without giving offence. Well, usually. And when he does offend, he does not appear to mind.

How does he dare? How would it feel to live so freely?

—

The Tenth of December, 1812 At Tea Time

Mr Harrison brought his mother to call today, her dove-grey visiting dress as practical and unfashionable as her sensible opinions. She settled into the damask chair near the fireplace, her jet beads catching the afternoon light as she gestured, while her son stood by the mantelpiece wearing a smile that suggested he knew exactly what he was about. Once, I should have been calculating the value of such a connection, measuring every word as carefully as one measures ribbon at the milliner's. Instead, I found myself genuinely interested in her thoughts on managing a household, leaning forward in my chair quite forgetting the proper posture drilled into me.

She has such practical wisdom! We spoke for nearly two hours about preserving fruit and training new maids, her hands demonstrating the proper way to fold household linens even as she spoke. The tea grew cold in my best Wedgwood cups, and I quite forgot to ring for fresh. When she opened her reticule to share her personal recipe for quince preserves, written in a hand as firm and practical as herself, I found myself taking notes on my own visiting cards! The Caroline of six months ago would have expired from mortification at such a conversation, would have steered the discourse toward opera or the latest London scandals. Instead, I found myself thoroughly engrossed in Mrs Harrison's discourse on the proper rotation of winter stores, her voice as brisk and refreshing as the herbs she recommended hanging to dry in the stillroom.

—

The Twentieth of December, 1812 A Clear Winter’s Morning

Today I watched Mr Harrison tell Lord Rotherham exactly why his new policies for his tenants were shortsighted. The scene unfolded in the drawing room at Mrs Ashton's, where the morning light streaming through the tall windows made it impossible to hide any expression. No hedging, no flattery—just clear, logical arguments delivered with perfect courtesy but absolute firmness, his cravat remaining immaculate even as Lord Rotherham's grew rather crumpled with agitation. Mr Harrison's quizzing glass lay forgotten beside his untouched cup, his hands sketching figures in the air as he detailed the mathematics of fair crop rotation and reasonable rents.

I found myself quite overcome watching him, my fingers pleating and unpleating my handkerchief beneath the table, my tea growing quite cold in the finest Sevres china. The forced smile I had cultivated was entirely forgotten as I watched his unwavering defense of what was right. Is this what Elizabeth felt, seeing Mr Darcy's fundamental integrity beneath his pride? My cheeks grew warm at the thought, and I had to take a rather hasty sip of cold tea to cover my confusion. Lord Rotherham's pinch of snuff went quite neglected as he was forced to actually consider Mr Harrison's arguments, while the other guests pretended a fascination with their plates that deceived absolutely no one.

—

The Twenty First of December, 1812 A Notable Day

Today I held my first niece. Little Margaret—named for our mother, her grandmother, is quite the tiniest person I have ever encountered. Once, I should have maintained a careful distance, making the expected polite noises while secretly dreading any threat to my silk gown.

Instead, I found myself utterly captivated by her impossibly small fingers and the way her entire hand wrapped around just one of mine. When she opened her eyes and gazed at me with that unfixed infant gaze, I felt something shift inside my chest.

“Would you like to hold her a bit longer?” Louisa asked, clearly surprised by my lingering presence at her bedside.

“If you do not mind,” I replied, unable to look away from Margaret’s perfect little face. “I believe she is quite the most fascinating person I have met this season.”

“Caroline!” Louisa laughed. “You cannot mean to tell me you prefer my red-faced infant to Lord Rotherham’s sophisticated discourse on wine vintages?”

I smiled, remembering how once I would have preened at any attention from such an eminent personage. “My dear, your Margaret has already shown more genuine emotion in her first day than his lordship has in half a decade of my acquaintance.”

The look Louisa gave me was startlingly like Mr Harrison’s when I speak my mind. “You have changed, sister.”

“Yes,” I agreed, watching Margaret’s tiny fingers flex against my gown. “Though perhaps it is more accurate to say I am becoming who I always was, beneath all the artifice.”

“Mr Harrison’s influence, I suppose?”

I considered this as Margaret made a soft, snuffling sound against my shoulder. “No. He merely made me realize I was worthy of being real.”

“Well,” Louisa said softly, “I find I quite like this real Caroline. As does your niece, it seems.”

Indeed, Margaret had fallen asleep in my arms, her small form radiating a surprising amount of warmth. I discovered I did not mind in the slightest that she was creasing my new muslin.

The old Caroline would have been horrified.

The new Caroline thinks some things are worth a creased gown.

Like tiny fingers, and honest hearts, and being exactly who one is meant to be.

—

The Twenty-Third of December, 1812 After the Whipples’ Dinner Party

Something strange is occurring. This evening at dinner, Mr Harrison was defending his position on Catholic Emancipation (quite unfashionable, quite correct). I found myself joining in, supporting his arguments with facts I had recently read. The words simply came forth, clear and true and unplanned.

He turned and looked at me, and—oh! That look! I have seen it before, on Mr Darcy’s face when Elizabeth speaks her mind. That tender pride, that delighted recognition of a kindred spirit.

I quite forgot to breathe.

—

The Twenty-Third of December, 1812 In the Late Hours

I truly understand. All those years pursuing Mr Darcy, attempting to win his good opinion through careful flattery and agreement—but this is what he wanted. What any worthwhile man wants. Not a mirror to reflect his own opinions, but a real person to challenge and support and grow with.

Mr Harrison’s estate is modest. His connections are merely respectable. He shall never be the catch I once dreamed of.

But when he looks at me with those clear, honest eyes, seeing through to the real Caroline and finding her worthy... I feel richer than if I had caught a duke. These past weeks have brought me more true joy than all my years seeking advancement—the laughter we shared over Byron’s latest, our spirited debates about the garden designs, even those practical discussions about tenant cottages that I once would have scorned. Good times never seem so good as when one is truly oneself. Indeed, I find myself wondering why I ever thought happiness must come wrapped in titles and grand estates.

—

The Twenty-Fourth of December, 1812 Following Yesterday’s Walk

“You are doing it again,” he said today when I began to make some elegant nothing of a comment about his sister’s pianoforte-playing.

“Am I? Oh dear. Well then, in truth? She requires more practise. But her enthusiasm is charming.”

He took my hand. Just for a moment. But the way he looked at me...our touching hands…

I begin to think that true intimacy—the meeting of actual minds and hearts—is worth far more than any social triumph.

How very unlike the old Caroline to think so.

How very much like the woman I am becoming to know it is true.

—

The Twenty-Fifth of December, 1812 Christmas Morning

“You are thoroughly spoiling me, you know,” I told him over tea. “I am becoming shockingly forthright.”

“You are becoming yourself,” he corrected. “And I find myself quite deeply attached to who that is.”

For once in my life, I did not calculate or plan or consider. I simply spoke from my heart:

“I find myself quite deeply attached to who you are as well.”

The look in his eyes... no estate in England could be worth half so much.

How strange that in learning to be genuine, I have found everything I once tried so hard to manufacture through artifice. True respect. True affection. True love.

The old Caroline would be appalled.

The new Caroline is simply, absolutely, genuinely happy.

—

The Third of January, 1813 A Most Troubling Morning

Adèle came to me today, her eyes cast down in a manner most unlike her usual forthright demeanour. She stood twisting her apron, a gesture I had not seen since she first came to us.

“Mam’selle Caroline, I must speak wiz you of a matter most... délicate.” Her accent, usually softened by years in England, grew more pronounced with distress.

“What is it, Adèle?” Although I knew. Lord help me, I had known for weeks and chosen to be blind.

“Je suis... that is to say... I am in ze famille way.” Her eyes remained fixed upon the carpet. “Monsieur Faxon, ‘e promised to marry me, but now...”

“Charles’s valet?” I interrupted sharply. As if there had been any doubt, as if I had not seen them in the garden at twilight, as if I had not heard their whispered endearments in the servants’ stairwell. One does become rather accomplished at avoiding uncomfortable truths when one has practised it as an art form .

“Oui, Mam’selle. But ‘e says now zat ze time is not right, zat perhaps in a year or two...” She lifted her chin, and I saw a flash of her usual spirit. “I told ‘im zat ze bébé shall not wait for ‘is convenient time.”

I felt myself stiffen with proper indignation. “Really, Adèle, this is most inappropriate. A lady’s maid in such a condition...” Oh, how grand I sound, how very proper. As if she had not held me while I wept over Mr Harrison last week.

“Mam’selle Caroline,” she said, using that old childhood name that always makes my heart soften, “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. I know that I ‘ave disappointed you most grievously” As if she had broken a piece of china rather than the rigid rules of our society.

I heard myself begin to speak of dismissal, of references, of the shame such a situation would bring upon a respectable household. Good Lord, I sound precisely like my mother. How provoking.

Yet even as the words left my lips, I remembered:

Adèle, holding my hand through my first London season. Adèle, listening to my tearful confessions about Mr Darcy. Adèle, gently suggesting that perhaps my “refined” manners were not serving me as well as I imagined.

"I know, Mam’selle.” Her voice caught. “I shall pack my things zis afternoon. But... may I beg one favour? A character reference? Without it, I cannot...”

“Adèle.” Her name caught in my throat. “How long have you been with me?”

“Eight years, Mam’selle. Since you were sixteen.” A tiny smile touched her lips. “Since you tried to dress your ‘air like ze Princess of Wales and nearly set it afire.”

Since you became more sister than servant, though I never had the grace to acknowledge it.

“And in all that time, have you ever known me to make a proper decision without your counsel?”

“Non, Mam’selle.” Her smile grew knowing. “But you are learning.”

—

Later That Day

I found myself relating the entire unfortunate circumstance to Mr Harrison during our morning walk. Though “relating” suggests more coherence than my actual stammering account achieved.

“Miss Bingley,” he said, when I had finished explaining my plans to dismiss her with a character, “do you recollect our discussion about the flower borders in your garden?”

I stared at him in bewilderment. “Indeed, sir? Horticultural metaphors at such a moment?”

“You insisted that formal arrangements were the only acceptable choice for a lady of taste. Yet wild roses are the envy of the county. Sometimes, the unconventional path yields the most beautiful results.”

“Sir, we are speaking of a servant in a... delicate condition. Not flowers.” Though I must admit, the parallel between cultivating gardens and cultivating compassion did not escape me entirely.

“Indeed. And what do you do with your most valuable plants when they require special care? You shelter them, nurture them, and trust they shall bloom again.”

Oh. Oh dear.

“I have a small property in Hampshire,” he continued. “The cottage there stands empty. A lady’s maid might find it a pleasant place for a period of... retirement. And afterward, should she wish to return to service...”

I felt my eyes fill with tears. “You would assist me in this?”

“I would assist you in doing what I believe your heart already knows is right.”

—

The Twelfth of January, 1813

Mr Harrison had written to the cottage’s caretaker. Adèle shall go there in a months’ time, before her condition becomes apparent. Faxon has agreed to marry her—though I suspect my brother’s intervention in that quarter—and she may return to me once the child is settled with her sister in the country.

“You are too good to me, Mam’selle,” she said, when I told her.

I thought of all the times she had been good to me. Of all the times I had taken that goodness as my due.

“No, Adèle. I am only beginning to be good enough.”

Although in truth, Mr Harrison deserves the merit. How provoking to find oneself becoming more worthy through his influence. Almost as provoking as how very much I find myself enjoying it.

—

The Tenth of February, 1813

My new maid, Mary, has managed to both tear my best morning dress and style my hair in a fashion better suited to a milkmaid. T hough perhaps I am being unkind. Milkmaids likely possess more skill with pins.

“I am most dreadfully sorry, miss,” she stammered, her fingers trembling as she attempted to repair the damage.

I felt my lips form the words of dismissal. S o easy to slip back into that role, like donning a familiar glove . But then I caught sight of Adèle’s empty chair by the window, where she used to sit mending my gowns and offering tart observations about my suitors.

“Mary,” I said instead, forcing patience into my voice, “let us begin again. Adèle taught me that the key to a proper coiffure lies in the foundation...”

Charles burst into my sitting room, waving a letter. “Caroline! The most extraordinary news from Pemberley!”

“Unless Mr Darcy has found good sense and rejected that fortune-hunting country miss, I cannot imagine what...” Though really, why do I still persist in this charade?

“Better! They are married! Last Tuesday, at Longbourn.”

I felt myself reach for my old phrases about connections and unsuitability. They died on my tongue as I recalled Mr Harrison’s words about gardens and unconventional beauty.

“Charles,” I said slowly, “are they happy?”

He looked at me as though I had begun speaking Greek. “Entirely so, from all accounts. Though I expected you to be rather more...”

“Bitter? Spiteful?” As I was but six months past, measuring worth by birth and fortune rather than character?

”My dear brother, I find I no longer have the strength for such careful cultivation of malice. It exhausts one so.”

“I say,” Charles settled into a chair, studying me. “You have changed, Caroline.”

“Have I?”— I have altered in every particular and yet somehow I feel more myself than ever— “Perhaps I have simply learned to tend my own garden rather than criticizing others’.”

“I do not know what that means,” he admitted cheerfully, “but you seem happier for it.”

Mr Harrison called that evening, his riding boots still bearing traces of mud from his journey, as the day's earlier rain had left the roads in a shocking state.

We spoke of the Darcys' marriage only briefly, the topic fading as naturally as the last rays of sunlight through the drawing room windows, before turning to a spirited debate about the proper placement of rose bushes.

He sketched possible arrangements on the back of a letter with his pencil, his normally precise handwriting growing rather enthusiastic as he argued the merits of southern exposure.

I found I preferred it so, watching the firelight catch the amber depths of his eyes as he defended his horticultural theories with the same passion he had shown that morning defending his tenants' rights.

Though I did allow myself one small moment of satisfaction—Miss Elizabeth will have to deal with Lady Catherine. Some comeuppance is only natural, after all. Though I may be improving, I have not achieved sainthood.